


Trespasses

by mirelurkcakes



Series: Against the Grain [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Het, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Violence, Porn With Plot, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-05-09 01:45:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5520788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirelurkcakes/pseuds/mirelurkcakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She no longer needed to know the “why” of it all—there wasn’t a reason. It was simply in his blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Steel Wool

     The Prydwen—it wasn’t nearly as majestic as most made it out to be; but, the sheer sight of the zeppelin could make anyone quiver in their shoes. Massive, floating fortress. A castle in the sky. Charlie could vividly recall the day it flew over the Commonwealth—she’d just beat a man into a sinewy, soupy pulp with her gun. It was a fleet of absolute power. Something circa 2077 with dozens of vertibirds in formation, following behind. Funny: looking on the sight, she thought the scene to be reminiscent of ducklings following their mother. In fact, she might’ve even mentioned the thought and gotten a small laugh out of Danse at one point—before shit hit the fan.

     Inside, it was dark and murky. The heat radiating from the engine made the air swampy and suffocating. Not nearly as pristine as one would think it to be—the Vault Dweller could walk through walls of dust particles as though they were snow. The ship creaked and moaned with every step, and a cigarette left unattended could spawn an unstoppable blaze that would spell out doom for all those who lingered within its bowels. A rust-bucket and a metal death trap. She loathed it, and didn’t understand why Maxson was so proud of the ship.

     Didn’t understand how he became a man resembling a tyrant either.

     Three years her junior, and this man held a massive militaristic organization in his gunpowder coated paws. A mortal god playing house with soldiers so willing to die for seemingly unjust causes that had been drilled into their skulls. Lobotomized by promises of a better future for all. Maxson was frightening if one glanced upon him with the naked eye—a construct of hardened muscle and scarred flesh looming above most; and, that was without power armor. If given the ability, few doubted that he had the power to crush entire civilizations under his boots with little effort—scrape the remains off with a serrated kitchen knife and lap it up with a lupine tongue for dinner. He probably wouldn’t even knick himself on the blade whilst doing so. But, it wasn’t that particular imagery that frightened Charlie—it was how unforgiving and cold he appeared to be. But, it was fascinating, and she found herself drawn to the Elder’s demeanor. Intriguing, it was. At times, he appeared softer: voice steady, yet unsure when he asked her about life before the bombs fell. Careful with his words, shreds of humanity dripping out and onto the floor. There was something hidden behind the wolf-skin.

     She’d tried to pick apart his story and failed on numerous occasions. Tidbits of information and rumors surfaced, but there were never any connections. Poking and prying: there was no one who could tell her _why_ rather than _how_. All she could do was observe him like a hawk when they spoke—try and see if she could subtly make him escape his shell, even for a brief moment.

     Fist rapped against the metal door separating Maxson’s quarters from the rest of his glorified balloon. It sounded like a feral animal was inside—groaning and grumbling and shuffling around without purpose. The door swung open a minute later, its hinges squeaking loudly. The Elder stood before her scratching at his jaw: towering at least a foot above. Looked disheveled—stained, white t-shirt, typically neat hair now tousled and beginning to curl at the ends: it screamed _‘I was napping’_.

     “Charlotte—I presume you received my inquiry?” His words were dotted by a yawn attempting to break free. She bit the bottom half of her lips to stave of girlish laughter, though it couldn’t mask the little grin tugging at the corners of her mouth.

     “Oh, so we’re on a first name basis now?” A gentle tease, and he responded just as she’d expected. Eyes narrowed, and he only stepped aside to usher her in. Not a smirk, nor a witty response. Stoic and cold as ever. Charlie sat at the table in the center of the room, kicking her feet up on its surface. At least he didn’t scoff at that. She let out a sigh and folded her arms across her abdomen—eyes trained on the smoke stained globe resting beside her. “So—where are you sending me? If it’s the Glowing Sea, _I’m not doing it_ —had enough of that place for one lifetime.”

     “I’m not sending you anywhere,” Maxson replied quickly, taking his place across from her. “I only wished to speak with you further about the events at the Institute. To gather more information and debrief the mission in its entirety.”

     A single brow lifted—of course that’s what he wanted: to shred everything she’d done and burn it under scrutiny. And yet, he offered her a drink. Poured a hefty amount of bourbon and handed over without asking or uttering another word.

     “I wanted to know why, exactly, you allowed the scientists to evacuate—why you allowed splinters of the enemy to flee with their lives.”

     “That is what we’re supposed to do, Maxson.” So he did call upon her just to bicker about what was already said and done. She sipped from her drink, searing her throat. The other went to respond, but was cut off before any words left his mouth. “Genocide is not the ultimate answer, as you should know. The innocent were spared. Higher ranking members were either killed or captured, and you got Dr. Li back. You have your coveted technology, and the Institute is destroyed. What more do you want?”

     “We were supposed to eradicate synths and annihilate the Institute as a whole. That—is what I wanted, and you did neither of those. Any one of those supposed scientists could have been of synthetic origin and you let them walk free.”

     “Of course—kill more bystanders because you deem them to be fake. Do child casualties not bother you?”

     He was near screaming on the inside: eyes fixed on the delicate yet ill mannered woman sitting before him. Boisterous and reckless, yet skilled and clever as a fox. She was as dangerous as she was gentle—could slit his throat in an instant and leave behind a scrawled letter marked with rouge lipstick prints to claim the kill.

     “They _are_ machines, Blair. A synth is still a synth—adult or otherwise. We are at war, and I plan to annihilate any remaining synthetic humanoids with or without the approval of others—”

     “Define _machine_ for me.” Her voice was low, and oddly calm. Casually sipping away—plush lips pressed to crystalline glass as though it were simply lemonade.

     “Do not feign ignorance,” he growled, mouth contorting around the words. She didn’t respond, and he wasn’t quite sure whether he was enraged or compromised by the moral compass he’d shoved into the back of his skull to forget. “Machine—it is something automated or programmed to carry out a particular task. Synthetic. Machines do not have feelings or free thought. They will kill if that is what they’re told to do, and you potentially unleashed dozens into the Commonwealth because you deemed it necessary to save a few ‘bystanders’ who were just as guilty as their superiors.”

     Charlie snorted. Rolled her eyes because she knew this man was now pulling at strings. Vomiting excuses and shifting blame for his tyranny.

     “ _Machine_ . . . no feelings or free thought. Looks like I have a candidate for that title sitting right before me, hm?”

     Maxson rose from his seat, hands planted firmly on the table. Fingers twitching in anger, whole body leaning toward the Vault Dweller. She thought, perhaps, that the sheer weight would snap it in two—send him through splintered wood and onto the ground. At this point, it would’ve been funny and she couldn’t care less.

     “You’ve possibly ruined the Brotherhood’s chance at saving the Commonwealth, and you sit here scrutinizing _me_ ? You say that _I_ am no better than those you flippantly let scurry away? You have the gall to waltz in here and speak to me in this manner? I will have you discharged and exiled—just like that _traitor synth_ you call your friend.”

     “It’d be a cold day in Hell before you’d do that, _Arthur_. You brought me in here to squabble, so sit the fuck down and let’s continue this as adults.”

     He didn’t return to his chair—rather, he paced across the room, hands behind his back. Face reddened with each passing second. Fuming and trying to piece together why his Sentinel would spout such an accusation. Hands then gestured almost frantically: cutting through stagnant air as he turned to the woman seated in his quarters, finger pointed toward her like a parent scolding a child.

     “You will not speak to me in that manner, nor will you give me orders,” he spat. “I—have given everything to lead the Brotherhood to where we are now, and you could have very well toppled what has been built. Don’t you understand? Everything I have done has been for the sake of preserving and protecting mankind as it is—for keeping dangerous technology out of the wrong hands. To create a better future for the world.”

     “And yet, you have completely forgotten what it’s like to be human. _Lose not sight of yourself_ . . . what would Sarah say if she saw that you’ve done the exact opposite?”

     Something clicked within the Elder; however, it was not a semblance realization. A killswitch, perhaps—he could feel something wretched boiling in his core. Nauseating: it made his bones weak, skin prickling as echoes from the past ghosted through his form. Hands met the table once more. Lightly, nails scraping against the grain.

     “Do not speak that name while in my presence. I will have you—”

     “Listen, I’m not going to sit here while you spoon feed hollow threats to me.”

     Charlotte stood, leaving her half-finished glass of liquor behind—chair not pushed in: perhaps a reminder that she’d been there. But, Maxson lunged as she turned to step outside. The entirety of his weight crashed into her lissome form. Back slammed against the wall, metal rivets biting into flesh through clothing. One paw ‘round her throat, the other knotted in her hair, forcing her to look up at the bestial man. Lock eyes. Her own hands latched onto his forearms: the tips of her fingers making little craters. Warm breath tickled her face: smelled like half smoked cigars and the ruination of innocence.

     “Do not speak of her again. Understood?”

     “You know what?” A garbled gasp trickled from her lips as his grip tightened. Tighter when a conniving, shit-eating grin spread across her face. Nose scrunched as she continued speaking: voice hoarse and spitting venom. “She’d be fuckin’ disappointed in you, Maxson.”

     She watched as his brow furrowed in anger, and then smooth out in either confusion or defeat. Blank horror. The color of rage had faded from his cheeks, and a ghostly pale washed in. His vice-like grip loosened— _he walked away_ , returned to his chair at the table and peered off into a swirling abyss only he could see.

      _At times, he appeared softer_.

     He didn’t acknowledge the malicious bruise that began to form on his Sentinel’s throat, but he could hear the air returning to her lungs. Wheezing—couldn’t tell if she was crying or gagging on dust. She hovered against that wall like a wraith: wispy breath forming words that cut him to the bone.

     “We’re two very different people, Arthur. I wanted to help and rebuild what was lost. You? You seek to conquer everything you can get your hands on without justification.”

     She no longer needed to know the “why” of it all—there wasn’t a reason. It was simply in his blood. The door clicked quietly, and she vanished, though lithe traces of her being remained. The wolf within Maxson’s veins howled into the sudden void, and the table went flying across his quarters. Glass shattered, paper sliced through air, and the globe split in two. Eyes damp—it’d been too long since he’d felt any shred of regret. It was glass in the back of his throat, and it wasn’t something that could be masked with false pride. Because he wasn’t proud of his actions—not a thing could mask them with good intentions.

     He could have gone after the woman. Apologized, though it would have been in vain. But, she made him weak—as she had so many times before: broke into the fourth dimension of his mind without lifting a finger. It made the courage he’d collected throughout his short life drift out of his pores. Undid the strings holding him together with just a name wavering out from between her lips.

     Now she was gone, and he didn’t know if she’d return.

     He sat at the edge of his bed and opened another bottle of mystery liquor. Tried and failed to forget his trespasses. It was for naught, and each little sin bled onto the sheets like debris from a train wreck.


	2. Gator Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With no definite signs of unwanted tag-alongs, she near launched herself from the beached fishing boat, opting into darting around the boathouse and up the sides of the rocky beach rather than taking the stairs. Frantic, with anger bubbling behind her ribs. Bloodlust seeped from her pores: thrash, maim, kill—already prepared for a showdown as her eyes locked onto the Elder.

     Arms crossed, his fingers skimmed gently across a mend at the elbow of his coat. Impossible for anyone to notice the sutured tear, only Maxson knew that beneath the layers of leather and soft fabric, there were tiny stitches: pink thread criss-crossing neatly like train tracks. Charlotte—Sentinel covered in grime and torn to shreds by weariness—she near demanded for him to remove the armor he hid behind as she dug out a small sewing kit—just so she could repair the damage.

     It was the only order he’d taken in years, and he found himself feeling sheepish as she sat at the foot of his bed: making small talk whilst weaving a needle through dark leather and cloth. In that brief moment, he’d remembered that she was just a young woman who’d lost literally everything. She’d lost her home, her husband, and her son—lost her life. He forgot the fire she spat, as well as her rising body count. Charlotte would storm into any firefight if he asked—and do so with a certain kind of cocky charm that made the Elder proud to have her as his right hand.

     A brief moment, and he forgot that she quite possibly loathed every fiber of his being: remaining silent about qualms just to help him with something so small in comparison to the ruination the wasteland faced daily. She disagreed with him on so much, and questioned everything he stood for—questioned everything that the Brotherhood stood for and against. And yet, when she gingerly inspected her needlework, the tense arguments and frigid glances seemed to vanish into a fine mist. Maxson had only been able to muster an awkward grin when she handed his armor over.

     “You should smile more often—it looks nice on you,” she’d said before ducking out, her voice a quiet mumble. Minor flirtation or a simple compliment, it made no difference. For an hour after, he’d stared dumbfounded at the door with the same look on his face: an awestruck young man infatuated with someone completely out of reach.

     Now, he’d potentially ruined her—betrayed her trust. In turn, his Sentinel crucified him. Fucked everything he stood for with a single sentence and burned the remnants. Damaged versus distraught: an uphill battle between a sharp tongue and blood-stained palms.

     Charlie was gone, perhaps forever. Deep within his bones, the Elder had only himself to blame. He’d sent out numerous scouting parties to try and find the woman, but the trails of bullet shells and bones lead to nowhere. She didn’t want to be found—self exile. That, or the wasteland caught up with her. The latter, however, wasn’t so fitting, and he continued searching every pore of the Commonwealth for signs of his Sentinel.

     Three months passed, and yet another scout reported—this time around, they’d flown into the Prydwen like a frenzied bloatfly. Missing a tooth, blood splattered down the front of their jumpsuit. The crumpled message they had in hand was snatched abruptly and read over and over—filigreed handwriting nearly treasured, despite how short (and cold) the message was. The paper was stained with coffee and wine—littered with random little doodles of mosquitoes and cake in the margins.

 

> _Arthur,_
> 
> _Stop sending people to speak for you. Leave me alone._
> 
> _Love,_
> 
> _Blair_
> 
> _P.S. The vertibirds are scaring the dogs._

     It was far more cordial that what was expected. Could’ve said something along the lines of, “ _You’re garbage_ ,” and it would’ve thrilled Maxson all the same. She’d been so close, and yet so far away. If one looked close enough, they could see the Vault Dweller’s hovel near the ocean, comfortably resting at the horizon.

     It was her haven—a little place to hide from horror and gore. She had been within reach the entire time, now sitting hunched over on the lap of a disgruntled synth in the back of a refurbished boat. A small screwdriver in one hand, and a can of oil in the other, her fourth glass of wine went untouched as she tightened screws holding finger joints together.

     “You don’t want me to dig up some old Gen. 2 skin to fix your hand? I’m sure there’s loads of it lying around.”

     “That’s alright, kitten. Having the wireframe kind of ramps up my intimidation factor.”

     Naturally, Hancock (in his drunken, inebriated glory—jet inhaler in hand, an arm thrown around a passed out Piper) chimed in, stringing slurs together and muttering something about “makin’em look more like claws”.

     Charlie set her tools aside, replacing them with the stemmed glass she’d near forgotten about. She swirled the sweet, dark liquid within before tipping her head back, downing it with one motion.

     “Ya know, I like you, Nicky,” she started, sliding into the seat next to him. “Good dude. Best dick in the Commonwealth.” She quickly gasped and covered her mouth with one hand, before falling into a fit of giggles. “That sounded so wrong. So so _SO_ wrong. I am _sorry_.”

     “Might want to watch what you’re saying, Charlotte,” Nick said through a dry laugh, gently patting the woman on her knee. She laughed along with the synth, reaching to refill her glass. Interruption, and she heard one of her dogs begin to bark, soon joined by the rest of the “choir”, as she called them. The distinct sound of a vertibird closed in, and she let out an irritated groan. It was becoming a common occurrence, but that simple, constant presence of soldiers in tight jumpsuits didn’t make the Brotherhood’s intrusion any less palatable. She only watched as the aircraft landed, preparing herself to slightly maim yet another initiate—perhaps a punch to the eye this time.

     “Wanna place bets on who’s gonna win this fight?” Charlotte quipped, a smirk painted atop ruby red lips. She stood up, a faint kind of dizziness washing over her body and mind. Fuzzy feeling, and a sudden thirst for blood. “Caps upfront, pumpkins.”

     “We all know yer gonna bloody lips, Lottie,” Hancock replied, whilst attempting to adjust the reporter who’d clung to him in a drunken stupor. “Ya did that the last time ‘round.”

     “Double caps for callin’ me ‘Lottie’, bub.”

     “C’mon, cut me some slack.”

     “Blue—hey, Blue,” Piper mumbled, roused from her blackout by their casual banter. “Don’t be alarmed, but—shit.”

     Charlotte’s brow furrowed, head cocked slightly. Her eyes shifted toward the vertibird, and a wave of both terror and anger washed over. Jumping down from the machine was a tall, almost brutish figure: a very familiar coat fluttering ever so slightly in the draft created by engines. With haste, the Vault Dweller grabbed a pistol someone had left lying around (the synth’s or the reporter’s, she didn’t know), and she tucked it into the back of her makeshift pants: arms of her jumpsuit tied ‘round her hips.

     “Fuck my _ass_. Nick, get these two inside. And maybe find a shovel. This might get bloody,” she paused and licked her lips, her head whipping around as she frantically checked her surroundings for others who may have tagged along with the Elder. “You know how they are …”

     The detective nodded, noting the urgency in her tone. He, along with Hancock, hoisted Piper to her feet, and quickly sought out shelter within Charlie’s hovel. With no definite signs of unwanted tag-alongs, she near launched herself from the beached fishing boat, opting into darting around the boathouse and up the sides of the rocky beach rather than taking the stairs. Frantic, with anger bubbling behind her ribs. Bloodlust seeped from her pores: thrash, maim, kill—already prepared for a showdown as her eyes locked onto the Elder.

     “I specifically told you—numerous times—to leave me the fuck alone!” Charlotte screamed, the projection of her voice scratching at her throat and lungs. She stormed toward Maxson, fire dancing in her dilated pupils. He didn’t manage to speak any kind of word before his Sentinel threw a punch in his direction, swinging with the force of a Behemoth—muscles twitching and working in unison. _She was not soft in this moment_. Maxson managed to swerve out of the way, only for Charlie to take advantage and shove her foot into his stomach, sending him stumbling back a few steps. With even a small amount of distance between the two, Maxson found a short break in the woman’s rage, and spoke as clearly as possible despite the sudden kick to the gut that left him breathless, hoping to not infuriate her further.

     “Blair, I just want to talk—“ he began, before stopping yet another swing: grabbing Charlie’s wrist firmly, but with no intent of becoming forceful.

     “That’s all, huh?” she sneered, pulling away from the lumbering man. Teeth bared in a snarl—disgusted and thoroughly miffed. Maxson’s original plan had failed, and he’d no backup to speak of. “You choke me out and expect me to want to talk with you? To settle whatever bullshit happened? No—I don’t think so. This isn’t something you can just apologize for, you bigoted, horrible, shit-spewing, lumbering sack of bruised ego!”

     She’d always been able to do this—hit him where it hurt the most. Cut into him with serrated words, spewing from a lupine maw. And he never knew just how to fire back. He couldn’t—always stumbling over words and bleating out whatever the Brotherhood had taught him. Settling arguments usually involved three-hundred pushups and scrubbing rust off of the Prydwen. This, on the other hand, couldn’t be quelled with any kind of manual labor. Maxon was a fault this time around, and he truly couldn’t deny that any longer.

     “ _You_ —you are a terrible monster sent up from the pits of hell to ruin everything you touch. Every. Single. Damned. Thing.” She grew more agitated with each word, pushing Maxson, her hands on his chest. Pounding her fists against him to punctuate every syllable. He didn’t have it in him to fight with her—she wouldn’t bow to him, and he resigned to her hurricane of bitter, yet wholly true, accusations. “I am sick of your pseudo-divine, ‘I am god,’ bullshit. You ruin everything you touch—everything you so much as look at. Including _me_ . You have _ruined me_ . You are power hungry, arrogant, and mean. _God, you are so mean_.”

     Her last words were spoken almost gently, as though she were a wounded doe begging for mercy of some kind. She pushed him once more, without force, and backed away. He could see dampness on her face, light from the window illuminating the constellations of freckles spread across her cheeks. Tears and spit and snot—woes and hatred—they painted a gruesome picture upon the woman. In that moment, he wanted to touch her, and wipe whatever slate there was clean of his trespasses. But the slate was broken, and pieces were missing. It became apparent that it couldn’t be made whole again.

     “Charlotte,” he rasped, nearly reaching out. Maxson cut his desired action off, knowing she would tear his arm off like a rabid beast. “I would just like a word with you. Please.”

     “Fine,” she said, after a brief moment, raking her hands down her face, wiping away the frustrations that had leaked onto her cheeks. She turned her back to him and began walking toward her hovel, and Maxson then took note of the pistol that was tucked into the waistband of her butchered jumpsuit. He didn’t know if she’d intended to end his life, but for the time being, he was perhaps in the clear. Swallowing thickly at the mere thought, he followed at a distance, up until she stopped dead at the back door. “Don’t you dare even look at my friends. I don’t care how _offended_ you may be. Got it?”

     She stomped inside before he even had the chance to silently nod. Again, he tiptoed behind, taking mental notes of the Sentinel’s home. It was cluttered with trinkets brought back from her adventures. Books, magazines, and comics lined numerous shelves. The wallpaper was floral and peeling, giving off the scent of failing adhesive and brittle paper. Three chairs, and a large sofa inhabited by a sleeping, raven-haired woman. Banging and banter in the kitchen: a stoned ghoul and a nicotine “addicted” synth. Maxson should have been shocked, but considering whose home he was in, it didn’t come off as a surprise that a woman such as Charlotte was harboring such _beings_ . He should’ve scoffed: sneered or belated out some brainwashed sermon about cleansing the wasteland of _filth_ ; but, he only averted his eyes, finding the action rather strange, yet simple, for someone in his particular position.

_Then again, he wasn’t in a good position at all. He was backed into the corner like a rat._

     There was only one flight of stairs: lined with various pieces of artwork and newspaper clippings. Small, potted plants dotted the steps periodically. The upper floor had been patched thoroughly: wooden and metal walls out of place beside decrepit drywall. And yet, the rag-tag patchwork _just worked_. Maxson stood for a moment, staring at a wall blankly, before stepping through another door—the metaphorical maw of Charlie’s den.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter coming very, very soon, in addition to a Drummer Boy one-shot!


	3. Psalms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You claim to want to help humanity, but you are doing the exact opposite. I watched the world crumble. Technology and the lack of knowledge to use it did not cause the world to fall to its knees. Men who craved power did, and you can see what happened. You are trying to take control of the lives of others, and in the process, you are ruining your own.”

     “Sit,” she ordered, pointing toward a cranberry colored sofa. Maxson obeyed, for the second time throughout his career as the Elder of the Brotherhood. His eyes nearly glued themselves to the Sentinel: watching as she bumbled about, as though there were nothing wrong. She took the pistol out from her jumpsuit, and set it on a round end-table positioned next to a four-post bed. A dozen pillows sat atop the mattress—completely clean of muck. She stepped toward a cabinet, her mind pulling at the strings of both her rage and sadness like a marionette. Two bottles of something or other were plucked from the shelves—she didn’t know what they were, nor did she care, and she tossed one toward Maxson, not even bothering to look at him before twisting off the cap on her own. Charlotte pressed the bottle to her lips and tipped her head back, downing a third of the bottle without even thinking. It seared her throat, and almost made her gag. She then threw herself on the opposite end of the sofa, wiping liquor off her chin. Staring out into an abyssal plane—a one-thousand yard stare.

     “You know you are an invaluable asset to the Brotherhood. And, I—am sorry,” Maxson mumbled, speaking up after an oddly calm moment of silence. Like her, he twisted the cap off of his bottle; and, unlike her, he sipped gingerly from it, noticing a tinge of sweetness upon his tongue.

     “An asset? Fuck you,” the Vault Dweller replied, her voice more projected than the other’s.

     “Well, what do you want me to say, Charlotte?”

     “I don’t know!” He’d waltzed into her sanctum unannounced, and disrupted everything. Just as he’d done over a year before with his massive, glorified balloon. Haphazardly, she took another swig, allowing liquor to dribble down onto her shirt. The two sat in silence for a long while, drinking almost in unison.

     “What was your life like before the war?” Maxson asked, carefully turning his head to peer at the brunette.

     “More peaceful than it is now,” she replied, with a faint hint of amusement in her tone. However, this tone quickly faded into something more defensive. “Why? You’re not really in the position to be asking  _ anything _ .”

     “I want to know you in a better, more  _ civil _ , manner.”

     “Nothing is  _ ever _ civil with you, Maxson.”

     “I’m being sincere: can you trust me with that, at least?”

     “Fine,” she grumbled, poking at the stain forming on her shirt. “It was bright and beautiful, and nothing hurt.”

     “You were married?”

     “Yes—his name was Wesley Blair. A soldier, honorably discharged from the United States Armed Forces.” Her face contorted slightly at the thought: more-so in a kind of fond remembrance than absolute grief. “I don’t think he was home for even a year when the bombs fell.  _ Huh _ …”

     “Is that why you joined the Brotherhood?”

     “It’s  _ always _ gotta be about your tin-can army, doesn’t it?” she stated, a blank expression washing over her face. She sighed slightly—defeated, almost. “Maybe. I’m not exactly sure anymore. But, I had a job to do, and you know—I’d rather get shit done with brute force.”

     “What better way than to cut a hole directly into the root of all evil?”

     “If there’s nothing else, at least we agree on that,” she shrugged, before sinking further back into the sofa. “I just can’t wrap my head around how Shaun became so … hellbent on that kind of madness?”

     “It may have been what he was destined to do.”

     “Maybe—I guess I’ll never know. But in the end, he’s gone and it’s over for now.”

     “There was a child there who claimed he was your son. What was—?”

     “He was a synth, Maxson. An abomination, in your eyes.”

     “They created a synthetic humanoid to resembled your son?” More of a statement, and not a question.

     “Shaun created himself, perhaps as a way for me to live the life I had before. Which, in the long-run, is impossible. There wasn’t any going back when he unfroze me for some sick experiment, and there isn’t any going back now.”

     “But you left him down there. A child, but a synth. And you scolded  _ me _ about child casualties?”

     “Arthur Maxson—I am not speaking to you about that particular conversation. As far as I’m concerned: it’s over. Done with. Gone. Disappeared into  _ nothing _ .” She sat straight now, with a scowl on her face directed at the Elder. The way she spoke the syllables of his name created a shiver that slowly worked its way down his spine, and he was sure that if she knew his middle name, she would’ve thrown it into the mix—just like a mother would. “But, if it is now a great concern to you, I issued his recall code while you were giving your holy-roller speech about victory and other garbage. He felt literally nothing when the reactor detonated. The other children were, and are, very much so real—flesh and blood—which is why I issued the evacuation in the first place. I couldn’t protect my own, so I decided to protect others. They didn’t need to see that much bloodshed.”

     Charlotte barely noticed the light dimly flickering in the other’s mind. Brief as it was, she truly hoped that perhaps, she may have helped him take a glimpse into the tyranny he wielded. Perhaps—she had cracked a wall. She carefully shifted on the sofa to face him, crossing her legs and propping her back against the arm.

     “Arthur—who was Sarah? What happened to her?” she then asked, her voice soft.  _ Just as he appeared softer at times _ . He grunted in response at first, then took a long swig from his bottle before hunching over, propping his elbows on his knees.

     “A mentor. A childhood  _ infatuation _ . She was tough and fought in accordance with Brotherhood law, though dirty work wasn’t ever below her. I looked up to her a great deal. It’s—not very easy to explain,” he began, fidgeting slightly.  _ Infatuation _ —a word that stuck out horribly, much to his displeasure. “Sarah wanted to change the world, just as her father did. She didn’t care about keeping technology out of the hands of those in the wasteland as much as she did about actually helping the needy. She was the Elder before me, after her father.”

     “It’s obvious she doesn’t hold the position anymore.”

     “No. Presumably, she’s dead—without a proper burial. Our scouts have never found her body, nor have they recovered her holotags.”

     “I’m so sorry …” Charlie began. Maxson raised his hand—not in aggression, but as a pause forced upon her.

     “I’ve always had a gut feeling telling me she’s alive somewhere, not wanting to be found. And, perhaps it is for the best. I wouldn’t force my job on anyone. It is not glamorous, and I can easily see why she would flee. Sarah was her father’s Sentinel long before she became Elder—she taught me everything I know. She wasn’t gentle, but she was kind in a certain way: perhaps to a fault. It’s odd seeing someone so different take up her torch.”

     “Different?” Charlotte quipped, feigning insult in some vain attempt to lighten the mood.

     “It isn’t like that—you’ve filled her shoes well.” He breathed out through his nose, and swallowed the ball of tar and glass that had formed in his throat. Remembered the words his own Sentinel had spoken months before. “She would be disappointed with me. Everything I have done has been for the betterment of the Brotherhood, and for the betterment of mankind. And yet, I managed to ruin everything we worked toward. Where— _ where _ did I go wrong?”

     Charlotte couldn’t decipher the look painted upon the man’s face—wasn’t sure what the mixture of scowl and pained frown meant. Still, she mustered enough courage in her half-drunk state and carefully scooted toward him until they were barely touching. A single hand reached out, hesitant at first, and it was placed atop the other’s own. She near flinched when her fingers were separated and wedged between Maxson’s—it was surreal and strange.

     “Do you want me to lie to you?” she asked, her thumb now drawing circles on the back of his hand in an attempt to offer some semblance of comfort.

     “No,” and he gave a squeeze, an attempt to draw her closer.

“You claim to want to help humanity, but you are doing the exact opposite. I watched the world crumble. Technology and the lack of knowledge to use it  _ did not _ cause the world to fall to its knees. Men who craved power did, and you can see what happened. You are trying to take control of the lives of others, and in the process, you are ruining your own.”

     “I need you to help me. Please,” he croaked, tone almost begging. “ _ I need you _ —to return.”

     “I cannot give you a definite answer in regards to whether I will return to the Prydwen or not. I am still too wary—”

     “You don’t understand, Charlotte. I—may have  _ feelings _ . For you.” He hurriedly pulled his hand away from her’s, statement more blank than expected, for what it entailed. Rough palms found a place on each of her cheeks, face cradled between. She could feel his hot, liquored breath against her skin: forehead just brushing her own. “I cannot run from your scorn: I would rather bathe in it. I am horrible, desperate, and weak …”

     “Arthur—” she mumbled, syllables of his name painting her lips in a growled warning of sorts. He near trembled: a nervous wreck who’d not so much as touched a woman so intimately in years. The hand that was placed gently upon his forearm did nothing to soothe the anxiety bubbling within. Perhaps it was only an outburst of uncontrollable and raw emotion he should have locked away and preserved in a chest for eternity—he knew naught. All that was certain was that a woman born of fire, bone, and a fallen empire sat before him. That, and the terrifying yet beautiful fact that he’d seemingly lost all control of his bodily momentum, his mouth gently consuming her own. Relief washed over him as she did not pull from him. Rather, their shared moment was reciprocated in a fashion only lovers could whisper of.

     “You know this isn’t allowed,” Charlotte quietly teased, words against his mouth, causing the fine hairs on his arms to stand. But, he did not care—decorum had no hold over what occurred beyond steel walls. Maxson’s hands drifted down the sides of her neck and to her shoulders, and then found purchase on her waist, gripping tightly, and she was easily maneuvered onto his lap. Knees loose, legs drifting apart and straddling his own. Body pressed flush against the other, her arms snaked around his neck. She felt depraved and nauseous—yet excited as new palms introduced themselves to her form. They were clumsy: catching on the fabric of her shirt as they traveled up the curvature of her back, fingers curling in shock when she claimed his mouth as her own; but, the thought of weathered hands maiming her nerves with lust drove any kind of reservation into a wall, effectively destroying it in the process.

     Her tongue flicked out and teasingly licked his lower lip—hands moving to his shoulders, attempting to nearly pry the heavy, leather jacket from his body. Nudging and impatient. Maxson reached between them to unbuckle the front: hasty in his actions. Fumbling about while trying not breaking the connection, letting out an irritated grunt when he’d no other option. As Maxson impatiently struggled with his battlecoat, Charlie took advantage: nuzzling her face into the crook of his neck, her lips pressed gently against the tender flesh of his throat. A pleasant hum encouraged her to press further, she nipped lightly up toward the Elder’s jaw, and laughed nearly breathlessly when he expelled a garbled moan.

     Maxson’s conscious was on tracks: only visions of consuming his Sentinel whole and raw floated through his sparking nerves in hedonistic patterns. The arm he’d managed to free from his armor wrapped tightly around the woman, and he hoisted her up, shaking the heavy coat off and onto the floor as she clung to him—still teasing his jaw, biting at his throat, giggling at his soft grumbles of satisfaction. Haphazardly, he stumbled across the room and tossed her onto her bed, its boards creaking beneath the force.

     Charlie stared up at him as he worked to remove his jumpsuit, etching his visage into the deepest recesses of her mind—as he stood there, his eyes scanning over her dimly light form like a starving animal. Even so, he was still unpracticed in an oddly charming way: fumbling for a zipper, then forcing himself out of his second skin with a mumbled frustration, as well as his boots, all in one go. The Sentinel reached out and grabbed the collar of Maxson’s undershirt, stretching the fabric and causing stitches to pop as she pulled him on top of her.

     She viciously attacked his mouth, moaning as she ground her hips against his own. Needy and almost pleading, wanting his full weight to crash down upon her. His fingers dug into the flesh of her thighs through thin cloth: raked through thick tresses of dark hair, yanking and tearing her shirt and muttering a half-assed, insincere apology before whipping it over her head, tossing it onto the floor. Her bra wasn’t shown the same mercy: all that was left hanging from a lamp was a tangled mess of straps and cotton. Charlotte was more gentle, however, despite the mouth that aimed to leave purple welts along her collarbone, and down the center of her chest.

     Hands drifted up Maxson’s undershirt, fingers carding through the dark hair on his abdomen. They navigated over his musculature: digits memorizing each wave it created. She felt him shudder as she ghosted over his ribs: eyes half lidded and staring down upon her, lips parted and damp. A single hand lost its way in the sudden stillness: teased the band of his underwear, and then traveled farther to palm the erection that pressed tightly against its confines. He choked on a sigh, eyes then fluttering closed to immerse himself fully in her feather-light ministrations. It was too soon when the searing heat left to lift his shirt.

     “Come on—off,” Charlie half-ordered. Her tone of voice—slightly husky and wanton—it made him grin sheepishly. Stupid and boyish. He shifted up to his knees, and rose his arms in a mock surrender. The off-white garment was whisked away. Set aside somewhere in confusion and urgency. Maxson inched himself off of the bed, and lifted one of the Sentinel’s legs, and then the other—shucking her boots away. Vault suit followed after: untied from around her waist and thrown into the abyss, underwear peeking out from the pile it made on the wooden floor. 

     She laid there vulnerable upon her throne of feather pillows. Bare and breathing heavily: almost  _ too _ ready to lose herself in a tyrant. He watched her shiver as he allowed one palm to stroke a firm thigh, up and toward its connection with her hip. Gently, he eased her knees apart, locking eyes with her own as his fingers drifted toward her center, teasing her folds. Slick. Needy. Wanting. He could only watch in awe: testing her with each lithe movement. Slipping a single finger into her core, her neck craned back, and she muttered something unintelligible. He added a second, circling her clit with his thumb as he adjusted himself, silently removing boxers that felt  _ too tight _ .

     Maxson withdrew, and she whined; but, her protests ceased has he moved to hover above her. One hand held his weight, while the other slid beneath her, adjusting her hips to achieve just the right angle. The head of his length teased down her slit, and he shook so slightly as he neared her entrance. Heart pounding, a knot forming within his belly. Slowly, he slid into her: warmth and wetness enveloping him.  A strangled, messy moan escaped the confines of his throat—uncharacteristic for him. Pure and raw: brimming with desire no other had ever been witness to. Hilting himself, his name was a ghost on Charlotte’s lips. It was reminiscent of a benediction—a psalm sung in the most unsanctimonious of ways. He dropped to his forearm, and brought her closer with the other. Skin upon skin, the geography of one another forever engraved into their bones.

     She whimpered below him with each painfully languid thrust, hips subconsciously rising to meet his own. Fingers digging into and raking down broad shoulders, gouging into his back. She was breathless, and he was weak above her—arms trembling with even the smallest of movements. A single, toned leg wrapped ‘round and pulled Maxson even closer, moan loud as he bored deeper within, stroking her walls at a quicker pace. Desperate: teeth assaulting her shoulder, biting nearly hard enough to draw sanguine fluid, if only to keep his head level. Face buried into the side of her neck: breath searing—groans of ecstasy muffled, just barely. She felt him losing control, and the ability to keep himself afloat. It’d been far too long, for both the Sentinel and the Elder.

     A heavy sigh breathed out through her nose, Charlie urged him to roll onto his back. A shocked, almost pained, gasp left his lips as the force cause him to pull from her core. She toyed with him then: wedging his cock between his pelvis and her sex. Moving to grind herself against the length, her fingers raking down his abdomen. His eyes scanned over her physique: dark, tangled hair framing her face, belly toned and smooth, gruesome scars somehow beautiful in the dim light. Incoherent mumbles of bliss filled the room as she finally lowered herself onto him. Head lulled back, and he closed his eyes, taking his lower lip in between his teeth. A small chuckle dotted with a heady timbre as she rolled her hips quicker than he’d anticipated.

     His climax caught up to him quickly, taking him by surprise. Toes spread like stars, and he found himself falling into a canyon, unable to produce a single sound. Fingernails dug into Charlotte’s thighs, creating little crescent moons upon her flesh. A high unlike any he’d experienced before: forged in senselessness, urgency, and a certain kind of nearly forgotten desire. Blue eyes barely opened, observing the woman atop him reach to finish herself off: fingers quickly working in circles around a sensitive nub. Hunched over, she clenched around him, her legs trembling. Gentle sighs breathed against his chest, he felt her movement slowly cease. She toppled and rolled to lay by his side, slinging an arm to shield her eyes from the intrusion of brighter light. The Elder followed her—clung to her—slinging both an arm and a leg across her body, head resting against her chest, trapping her against the bed.

     The two breathed deeply and heavily, and Maxson soon lost consciousness. Charlotte peeked down, lips twitching to form the smallest of weary smiles. Face smoothed over, he was peaceful for once—looked his age, even. His hair was tousled, damp with sweat and curling at the ends. Fingers delicately brushed strands away from his forehead, and he hummed in response, pulling himself closer to her. It was a brief glimpse into a hidden world.

     At times,  _ Arthur appeared softer _ . 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finished, finally! If you enjoyed this, both kudos and comments are much appreciated. I will probably be writing up a "morning after" kind of thing at a later date, but it will be added to the series as a brief one-shot.


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